Indigenous mollusc middens.

The Advanced Society.

We must write our own mythology.

There is an integral ingredient missing from the Australian story…and it is the awakening of a mythology for us newcomers to this land to hold as a kind of stabilising talisman to give us security of purpose and a direction toward the future…much like the Ancient Greeks held their mythology close to their lives as lessons of greater or lesser ethical or moral observation.
The Indigenous peoples have theirs solidly fixed to their skin…there are many whites who want to “sew” that ancient mythology to their own cloth…it may be a comfort, but surely it is a cold comfort in that the obvious differences of tribe or clan or ancient bloodline just cannot be compared.
But no…we settlers have been in this land for over two hundred years now, and it just may be time to take those first child-like steps to weave our own tapestry…and certainly it must be crossed and interwoven with those first peoples, because we have dragged them struggling and under restraint into our story-line…I am certain they are on the cusp of breaking free and resuming their own mythological destiny..but we too must commence to write the song-lines that willl tie us to this country..and secure for our children’s children’s future as secure a sense of “belonging” as those long-lived first peoples…

In his book The Road to Serfdom, Freidrich Hayek asserts that the economic freedom of capitalism is a requisite of political freedom… with continual growth being the mechanism that feeds such “economic freedom”.

So we have to propose the question : What makes an “Advanced Society”?

Could it be that as proposed by Hayek above?..Or is it something more basic…more durable…more sustainable than the capitalist notion of continuous growth / continuous consumption? Can it be presumed that a technological advanced society holds greater ethical dominance and therefore deserved racial dominance over the more stable tribal structures that once were spread throughout the Australian environment for tens of thousands of years?

Consider these examples..

Eucalyptus Largiflorens (Black Box) : Distribution and occurrence: Local community dominant, in grassy woodland on heavy black clay soils in seasonally flooded areas;

In this area of Sth. Aust’, primarily restricted to ex swamp-lands. This tree, like many that have evolved to an environment-specific location can be found near my residence in the Mallee. Like the Mallee trees everywhere, it has evolved in a stable, static environment over many thousands of years..indeed, you can see that a multitude of trees and understory in the Mallee bio-forest were reliant on such a stable environment for them to spread so wide, so far in such profusion. Any extreme disruption of climate or landscape would have changed the appearance and bio-diversity of the entire forest and it’s denizens..THAT is a “given”. We have to accept : The very existence of such a bio-forest system proves beyond argument that the geography where they settled, took root and evolved was stable, static and sustainable for a very long period of time.

This is an important point to my argument..we have to understand and accept that the Mallee bio-forest, from the dry-lands to the swamp-lands, from the canopy to the forest floor is a unique interconnected species specific / environment specific entity that relies upon a stable, static geophysical situation to maintain it’s integrity. Certainly, that integrity has been corrupted over the last two hundred years since settlement to the point where we cannot truthfully claim that pristine Mallee exists anymore at all. It has become a victim of “continual economic growth”…and one has to logically conclude that in the last resort of sustainable life ; if the environment fails, then so too will the society that killed it.

Likewise, if we look at the indigenous peoples who lived and thrived for many thousands of years along the Lower Murray and The Coorong in Sth. Aust’. I will not even attempt to disassemble the complex tribal structures that existed along the lower Murray River…it would be presumption on my part and liable to insulting error. Enough to point out that settlement is proven for many thousands of years. Indeed, carbon dating of one site of middens (discarded mollusc shell-heaps along The Coorong) alone put it back to 2.500cal BP. (2.500 yrs. Old)…so we have evidence that of the many sites scattered along the seaward-side of The Coorong there was regular gathering and consumption of a reliable food source by the indigenous peoples for thousands of years. I have seen these middens many years ago…scattered amongst the site were numerous camp-fire circles, denoting the practice of stopping, gathering, cooking and consumption of the food and presumably the social intercourse that accompanies such moments.

For such feasting to have taken place (these middens are huge!), would prove the reliable, regular supply of the molluscs and the reliable, regular harvesting by a group of peoples familiar with and capable of attending to such a chore on a continual basis for thousands of years. I know the geography of The Coorong well..on the seaward-side we have bountiful harvest of shell-fish, on the landward-side we have bird and mammal life…the evidence of indigenous people’s fish-traps on The Coorong, indicate regular harvesting of food there, the abundance of fresh water from the natural Sth. East drainage system then in place, guaranteed the presence of kangaroos, emus and sundry wildlife for food and clothing…in all, one must admit, that along with the temperate climate, not a bad place to reside…indeed, it could be considered almost an idyll..and reside here people did ..undisturbed for many thousands of years…mark that!…food, clothing, shelter of a quantity and quality that remained in-situ for many thousands of years…exploited but not over-exploited..harvested but not depleted..lived with but not dominated..and perhaps it could have gone on for time immemorial..like it already had…if not finally destroyed by the kind of “advanced society” lauded by Mr. Hayek at the start of this article.

So tell me..: What constitutes an advanced society?..is it the one who uses it’s developed technology to invade, subjugate, desecrate and finally, perhaps, annihilate that very environment it relies upon for it’s life…or is it the other who, with astute observation recognizes a “line” between sustainability and destruction, and by managing it’s population ,refuses to be tempted by the possibility of a gluttony of temporary riches and maintains a judicious, salubrious lifestyle and culture for many thousands of years, visiting the same locations for food, clothing, shelter without desecration nor selfish accumulation?

So YOU tell me.: Who has the most “advanced society” ?

Reflections..

(Emails to and from an old tradesman friend)

Len Riley.

to me.

Dear Joe

    I have been thinking lately about my hands [no, I haven’t lost it} 

It occurred to me after reading the piece you recommended to me. I have spent some time around Adelaide CBD and I can no longer tell people, mainly my Grandchildren that I knew the bloke who built this stone surround to the Bonython Fountain [Richard Carli] it has been replaced with a non-descript piece of ,”art” As John Ruskin stated ,” and I will show my children , this is the work my hands hath wrought”. I look long and hard at my hands and sadly remember the work they have done. Each scar and knobbly joint has a reason to be there. It tells a tale of work, of time and patience spent carrying out work as a tradesperson. Should I be proud of such malformations or should I hide them in shame. I prefer pride to shame as each imperfection tells a story of endeavour. I have conquered much in life but still have more to overcome. I cannot predict my end/demise, it may be quick or slow but I know for certain it will come. I am not a morbid person or suffer from  depression, I am a realist and hunter. Once I accept my human frailties there is nothing to fear. I am holding my hands out at arm’s  length  {no pun intended] I realise that most damage is to the left  hand, the hand that holds and guides. The right hand held a saw or swung a hammer, whilst inflicting pain on its partner. They were not at war with each other, they simply played a role in my work.[I have been lucky so far, I have spent 58 years at my trade, and still have all my fingers, nor have I broken any bones. Is that good I hear you say?, well it’s not bad considering my age and temperament. But my hands are more than an extension to a set of tools, they have held children, grandchildren, and  the occasional glass of wine. What will be their fate ? I watched my own father loose the use of his hands .then arms and finally his lungs. Motor neurons disease is not easy to watch, but he did it all with dignity. A painter and decorator by trade he relied on his hands to guide a paint brush or roller. To hear him ridiculed for his lack of skill at paperhanging during the early days of this disease, broke my heart. But back to my hands, I only remember them as passive weapons and only once remember them as being aggressive when I 

knocked a person out in anger. I am ashamed of that incident as it showed a lack of self control  on my part. I have noticed more recently that my grip has reduced in strength and I put that down to an over tightened jar or bottle rather than a loss of strength due to age. Age is a blessing and a curse that I can do little about! What of the future? Well as my mother in law would state, “ the future is a mystery that we’d be wise to keep , lest we gain a history that would make us wail and weep”. . For those who have read , “Carlos Castaneda ,A Second Reality”, we may well ask , what is real? My hands look real, feel real and I think they have done real work, [what  ever that is? But what I have achieved maybe viewed as meaningless ]I do not suppose that the nurse who opens a door to a ward in the children’s hospital even remotely thinks, well that is a well hung door, I wonder who carried out that work? The reflection in these matters is left to those who know which person may have carried out the work. So  what ?you may say.

I have a need to continuously learn and particularly in the area of IT. My hands are not dexterous any  more,  and even the simple use of a phone can be troublesome with my carpenters fingers [wide and fat] But I have digressed from my original thoughts on hands. We would achieve nothing without them and our society depends on all hands working without the skilled hands and the guidance by the brain nothing could be achieved. Even the great explorers, heart surgeons and musicians could do nothing without the use of tradespersons hands and brains. James Cook would have had to walk to the Great Southern Land without the ship builders. In classes I teach, I ban the word, ‘just’. We are never,’ just’, we are the accumulated result of others who have turned their hands to carpentry and other things. You can see by my ramblings that my hands cause us to think and contemplate. My dear wife says,” you think a cup of tea solves everything,” and my reply is,” yes it does” it allows you to stop and think for a moment. 

    I could not help but reflect on the demise of the great English wood carver, Grinlin Gibbons, who towards the end of his life found that he was involved in a dying art and turned his skills to carving in stone and although good, it was not to his liking. I believe he died almost penniless but famous, and it was that regard for him as an artist that carried him through to the end of his life. So what will we be remembered for and by whom. I remember you as a good shot, a good motor cycle rider. But who am I to promote our skills, so we have to rely on our children and grandchildren to remember us and they are more likely to remember us as a caring/loving grandfather. I think of my own son and daughter realise they know more about me than most people. They have witnessed what work my hands hath done and what skills I excel in and those I don’t. So now I work for them in a limited capacity or where and when they need me. But then I would have it no other way. I gave my son a wooden  car, a scale model of a 1927 Bugatti and my daughter several timber boxes with carved tops. The boxes are now set in bedrooms and used to house trinkets and keep sakes.  I am proud to have been a carpenter/drafter/writer and everything that went with it.

Yes I think my hands have done well!

Len Riley  6/10/2020 

Joe Carli. Oct. 8, 2020, 7.25 am.

to Len. Hello, Len… I got your email late last night, read it..stayed awake a while pondering on its substance and the mood of yourself (never known to me to be such a contemplative chap) that inspired such a tender and honest response…and quite beautiful in its admissions too if I may say so… Yes…our hands could be called those mute, instinctive instruments of our desire…I too have quite often rolled my hands around each other and marked the now dry skin and now lack of deep callouses. Thanks for the insight to your thoughts, Len…we may not have had much contact over these last many years, but I do often think on those days in the craft.. Can I leave you with another small but so true reminisce on the trade that I am CERTAIN you too will recall…regards..joe.     Joe Carli Oct 8, 2020, 8:03 AM   to Len. Now..having had breakfast and that soothing cup of REAL coffee..I can also speak of our parents role in our upbringing..You speak of your father Len…yes, I remember him..quiet chap with always a smile whenever I recall him, I recall your mother as the more strident of the two..a registered nurse, if I recall..quite serious and determined..I’d avoid her out of my youthful fear of adult reprisal..no..not fear, just that youth / adult thing of those days… My own parents were a strange match…one of the first mixed ethnic marriages after the war..it couldn’t have been easy for either of them socially when I think back on it..Her for marrying a “dago”, him for marrying outside the cultural expectancy…I know it wasn’t an easy marriage… But my mother had youthful expectations of becoming a writer..or poet…and she tried and had several pieces published in women’s magazines..but that was it..and as I struggle to have my pieces accepted and read to any extent, I can see that she came up against that same obstacle that I have had to overcome..the grammatical purity that marks and brands one of coming from a certain class…a network of favour, introduction and influence..I’m not paranoid nor do I now expect it to change, for I am convinced at this my 70th year, that civilisation as we know it is not a carefully constructed edifice, but rather the result of a period of benevolent calm after conquest and secure by the political and military power of an ethnically superior force… After the passing of my mother..and her generation…back in 2014, I remarked to a cousin that I now felt like an orphan..for however that older generation saw their place in this society, be it servile worker or aspirant individual, they slotted in solidily and stoically endured the good with the bad and created a solid foundation for us younger generation to launch ourselves from…I now miss that certainty that they exuded… I have written a piece in respect and memory of my mother’s younger woman’s desire for that moment in the poet’s sun..at the risk of boring you (like I seem to bore so many other people with my pieces) with that piece written just a little time ago…regs..Joe. https://freefall852.wordpress.com/2020/08/03/the-collected-poems-of-adam-lindsay-gordon/             Len Riley Oct 9, 2020, 7:59 PM     .   to me. Dear Joe Our writing styles may be different but I feel we touch the same core nerve in our generation. Like you I now feel like an orphan with the passing of my mother 4 years ago on Anzac Day. An appropriate for her as she had served as a young nurse on the American airfields in the UK during WW2. She was a proud Londoner who married a young gunner whose father and grandfather were deeply religious {not a good match by standards in those days}   .   Len Riley Oct 9, 2020, 8:53 PM     to me. Dear Joe  Your summary of nailing down floors brought a wry smile to my face.. My very first job was to punch the nails in three homes all laid in Jarrah and God help me if I split a board at the end of a cut. After a week of that I had blisters on my blisters. I well remember the art of nailing pine floor boards,, especially as sometimes they had to be nailed with the oval type bullet heads. I can still feel the pain in my mind as I recall nailing so rhythmically that I would sometimes with the second blow bend the nail over my finger. Like you the boss would sometimes stand and watch as though waiting for a mistake [especially nailing WRC match boards] which was not hard to grant him as an apprentice, he would then lose his cool and with a few choice words storm off..   Len Riley Oct 9, 2020, 9:30 PM         to me. If I can be so bold, I offer the following as one of the few poems I had published!   Refugees Like leaves that cling to summers vision Long into autumns cold Tattered, torn by winds of seasons past That long to break their hold Crumpled, broken They gather in some sheltered lea And long to love and live and just let be, just be Will winters rain rot them down among the growth of newer days Or will a ray of early morning sun shine through a misty haze And spring to life the vision of tomorrow’s dawn That in the act of falling a more sacred wish is borne To join the brotherhood / sisterhood of life A circle in full turn Or will the apathy of man simply gather them to burn If only I had all the strength to take them to my care To give them back their yesterdays now stripped bare    Len Riley 1995                Joe Carli               Oct 9, 2020, 10:05 PM   to Len A good poem…an internal poem…It hurts, what has been done to refugees..can I ask you where you had it published and have you had other writing published?…What does E… think of your writing poems?…I get condescension at best..ignored at worst..even a tad mockery..from various people..I put it down to class snobbery…at least I know my own worth, and I keep writing…I have to…have to get them out..       Joe Carli Oct 10, 2020, 7:27 AM   to Len. I have for years been looking for other working-class people who write and comment on  their political/social situation…You seem to have been hiding your light under a bushel…I know you wrote an autobiography..but have you continued with writing…that poem was from 25years ago…have you kept it up?..I meet some good tradies, clever, intelligent, but lacking that reach to delve too deep into their soul to put poetry down..some fiddle with amusing anecdotes or “stream of consciousness” pieces of around 100 – 500 words about nothing much in particular..and are not to be taken seriously as writers in most cases.. I have not much truck with the idea of “art for art’s sake”..but rather like to work my characters to portray a social situation and I like to end my stories not with sentimental “happy endings”, but at least with the spirit of hope.. And yourself?… Quo vadis?…Joe.       Len Riley Oct 10, 2020, 9:03 AM     to me Dear Joe May be its a trade background but I too am a Labor supporter I worked for TAFESA for some 41 years and finally for private providers for the remainder of my time that makes up my 48 years as a lecturer/ carpenter. I was at Adelaide TAFE for about 26 years and wrote about 120 books [technical manuscripts] in that time. You can google me up on line but there are only a few books left now. I don’t know much about  intellect but I have always told my students that to be really good at anything you must continue to read, to contribute.. I would point out that to learn as much as possible about building you need a brief knowledge of Architecture,Fine Art  Entimology Botany and Science, About the Old gang at Kingston Park, it brings back memories, especially Maris and Harry. I came across another person who lived in the area, John L…, another Latvian but he was also an extremely good cello player and when I met him at the Conservatorium he did not want to know. Those days in the gully opposite the Zalup’s house were the best days of my life [carefree]. It is sad to reflect on our passing and where life takes us.  Regards Len     to name a few. I can still remember a young lady in the lecture theatre at Marleston Tafe asking me,, How do you know all this ,shit Len ,         Joe Carli Oct 10, 2020, 9:59 AM   to Len I’ve gone a bit cool on Labor since I wrote that piece, coming to the conclusion that so many of them now are just middle-class brats without that base/core of working class ethics…too many also are from the private schooled network that controls the majority of authorities /judicial/corporations etc, etc of the country…I DESPISE the middle-classes for what they have done to the skills base of the common people over that last couple of hundred years since the industrial revolution…But I still persist in voting for Labor as the best of a bad bunch.. What has happened to TAFE over the last decade is a crime..me, personally, I’d like to “Stalinise” the whole mob of LNP bastards!.. :) … I remember John L… there was also the “Crasts”(spelling?) next door to the Zalups…I believe the eldest girl was a very good chess player.. Knowing a trade let’s one into a world of knowledge not only of the one specific trade, but into the knowledge of methodology of structure, weights and measures..in a physics sense..and the world of manpower management and time-tabling…I did a couple of years mature entry at Adelaide Uni studying the Classics ..: Roman history / Latin..and then Howard fucked the whole system up and they cut classics down to the bone, making some courses bi-annual and taking the guts out of the whole department..I tried to compensate with other social science courses but I couldn’t get interested in them..and since I was there for interest and already had a career, I deferred indefinitely… I had to give the Latin away after passing the first year as it got too advanced in a grammatical way that my basic knowledge of English grammar let me down..now THERE’S and interesting subject..: The turning of Ancient Latin (that the Romans spoke) into the constructed grammatical complexity of Medieval Latin of the Popes and religious scholars that we use today..deliberately manufactured to stop the common people from learning it.. anyway..will continue later..Joe.

Upon this world under an open sky,

Five gentle souls they quietly lay.

Undisturbed in warm Mallee sands,

Rain dripping from boughs drumming sound,

Upon quiet resting place would gently land,

In contrast to that man’s murderous hands.

And upon season to season play,

At rise of sun, at break of day,

Would run with them those wild creatures play,

Five gentle souls there quietly lay.

*

Now.. two old farmers would often pass close by,

Two old friends driving past where those souls lay,

Rozenswieg and Schwertzfeger their names derive,

Their tractors with ploughs attached would drive.

To seed, to cut and bale their harvest hay,

Those two farmers would pass, day by day,

Unaware of the tragedy that did there lay.

Behind wire fence under open Mallee sky,

The drumming drops of dripping rain would fall,

Upon those gentle souls buried by a murderer cruel.

*

‘Twas harvest done, raked, baled the two friends came,

One with rake, one with baler, day’s work done,

Upon that track past where lay five girls alone.

Schwertzy’s tractor just there did come undone,

And to a sudden halt they both stood to pond’

“’Tis the steering arm,” Schwertzy said “the pivot gone,”

“Go cut a piece of fence-wire and bring me some.”

There.. Rosie’ sniffed and sensed the lair,

Proclaiming; “Something’s not quite right here”.

“There’s a scent of death hangin’ on the air.”

*

And the two friends stood by the wire fence dread,

Combined knowledge of scent of animals dead,

Wondering on that strange, scented, tainted air….

What new cut of beast lay dead here.

But farmhouse chores heeded them back,

From curiosity the ground where that scent it sat,

And making fast the broken steering arm,

They once again safely made for home,

Blind luck sparing those two a ghastly sight to behold,

The shallow graves of those five gentle souls.

*

Oh that our lives do we softly pray,

Would never meet such violence directed, aye,

Whilst we traverse our business everyday,

Safely harboured, safely housed, gently at play..

By all the saints and sinners cursed,

Pray indeed, that fortune’s fateful worst,

Be never of what these gentle souls immersed,

Wrack upon wrack upon wretched burst,

Of such insane, demented, psychotic hate,

Would see US in such a shallow Mallee grave.

*

For the world we make plan when first we strive,

In making of a home, family, living, alive!

Be foreseen as a sweet, smooth, pav-ed path,

From birth to cradle to work to Everlast,

With neither interrupt nor fate foreseen,

Of violent attack by maniac aggrieved,

Yet these five women, no fault their own,

Be dragged in violence from love and home,

To death and bury in a shallow grave,

Off lonely bush tracks wandering animals made.

*

And I can’t help but feel there trapped inside,

The souls and spirits of those gentle five,

Deep Mallee bush and shrub to abide,

Forever more, forever a murderer’s hide,

But see..let you and I make work and reprieve,

To set such fair souls in captivity free!

Let us take these gentle spirits held in our lands,

Cut their cords, sever the bonds from their hands!

And into the wide, open skyed Mallee frieze,

We’ll deliver these uncaged doves, their liberated spirits free!

*

Isadora Duncan…

Crikey!.. I’ve been roped into some bizarre things by some very strange ladies in my younger years, God bless their souls and tantric postures! But a bloke often gets swept away by that feminine mystique for the strange, spiritual and bizarre…and crikey!..I ask you other chaps; who are we to deny them?

Take the time I was “encouraged” to be a part of this “Dromenon Labyrinth Circle” gathering.. hey!…I was young, I was keen!..Just what is a Dromenon anyway!

” One set comes from the Gnostic tradition of the Chartres School, and the other from Sufi beliefs.”..(wiki’)Well, there you go !..and I had in mind ‘Greeks bearing grifts’..

Many years ago I was “involved” with a lady deeply immersed in the psychic business..hey! I don’t make these things up , you know !! And so I was taken on the psychic trip with the Full Monty..(what’s that Groucho Marx ‘aside’ : “I was in love once and I got the “business!”) I still have a couple of pics stashed somewhere with myself and a couple of the other faithfuls holding “talking sticks” with some loosely tied chook or crow feathers on them as a kind of symbolic “connection” to “our spiritual ancestors”…..and why not?…my grandfather did breed chooks after all..and granny had her turkeys !…But it was at one of those weekend workshops where people go back into their past lives and discover their tribal roots….Marvellous how so many Native American Indian princes there are in the anglo-saxon gene pool!….Of course, one wouldn’t like to discover a spiritual ancestor who was ..say ; of an Outer Mongolia prince…the image of “horde”, “massacre” and Genghis Khan springs to mind…the same with those Germanic types…: Attila and all that!…no, no (and pardon my ignorance in these matters)…safer to wander the ancient forests of Seattle with Pocahontas or Running Bear on ‘the shores of Gichigoomie’ (spelling ?)..after all ..all they did was hunt buffalo and make jokes about two dogs!

But I had to give that relationship away when it got to joining in public performances of full-moon circle-dancing on suburban beaches….I mean..fair go eh?…there’s only so far a young bloke can be expected travel for some things..eh? (sometimes the journeying ISN’T better..etc, etc ).And I do make note here that I’m a great believer in the spiritual myself..why..I’m almost a Buddhist, y’ know? …(Author’s note: I have since switched to The Rosicrucians, for whilst the Buddhists expect one to meditate and chant incessantly, The Rosicrucians don’t expect you to do anything!….a no-brainer for me)…

There was this moment at one of the monthly meetings of “The Dromenon Circle”, where we were all expected to bring some example from our day-jobs that would show the spiritual connection between our everyday working life and our inner soul…As you know, I was in the building trade….heavy then…full on!….I thought of Ron th’ brickie…and my mind went blank on spiritual connection somewhere between sweating and swearing..after all..the “thing” in building for the tradie, is the pragmatics..the finishing of the product….or as James Joyce said to his portrait painter (wtte) ;… “Don’t worry about the spirit of the thing, just get the tie right!”

So then I made models of three different wooden joints as an example of the advance of human vanity from the ancient Egyptians with a heavy-beam “scarf-joint” for spanning across the supporting pillars of temples, to an early concealed “fox-joint mortise and tenon” used in high-class chair manufacturing, to the creme-della-creme ; “three way concealed dovetail” joint for use on the corners of display cabinets…I thought they were symbolic of the innate desire in humans to conceal the structure of a thing, yet contain the strength of construction with the beauty of a thing….that sort of stuff…I know, I know..getting a tad philosophical for a chippy, but that’s the kind of bloke I was…jeez!..they took some time and effort to make..esp’ the three-way-dovetail..YOU try it!..But then, in spite of the work slaving over them,( and isn’t it ironic how ignorance of a thing is so swiftly followed by a lack of interest in the thing) you see…they were a little too “industrial” to be given much more than a curious glance, a wrinkled nose..nothing spiritual it seems in the actual working structure of things, whereas so much more in the aesthetic facade…the evil grin of the gargoyle always gets more attention than the masonary corbel supporting it.

So that was my experience with labyrinths…I walked them, I talked them…I did a lot of listening about them…them and Joseph Campbell on mythology…jeez! he put out a lot of books and tapes..cheerful bugger..that’s it..; Cosmology…there’s a science there somewhere, I’m sure of it….Though I’m buggered if I know…one can only travel so far down someone else’s road..and then it seems that while they are spiritually walking a “field of wild-flowers and buttercups”, all  you are seeing is brambles and thorns….there comes a time to walk another path…perhaps a ; road less traveled.

But I do recall that “parting moment” that severed the relationship…preceded by my involuntary lip-pinched, spittle-flecked guffaw…

I was “encouraged” to take part in that “circle-dance” in the first moon cycle on the beach at Henley Beach. We were sitting on the sand there at the bottom of the steps of the jetty, waiting for “Marcie” who at that moment appeared at the top of the steps…

“Oh look!..” one person whispered, “She isn’t wearing her glasses….you know, she’s been taking that potion to strengthen her vision and she has been seeing “Joyce” about ‘overcoming with  her mind’ so she can stop using her glasses”….

Indeed, there she was, head poised staring straight ahead, hand on the rail stepping elegantly with pointed toe straight toward us measured step by step with all the grace of a queen….we sat there staring in silence, in awe….then at the foot of the steps, while staring dead straight at us, she suddenly threw a leftie and started to walk away up the beach!…….yes..yes…blind as a bat!….

”Marcie, Marcie” we called…………..I tried to muffle a snigger….and that was when I got “The Look”…..

Painting : “The Hay Wain.” John Constable.

The Art is in the Heart.

I wrote this piece in reply to a slighting of one of my stories on a blog I used to contribute to…

“Thanks for the support all, but I can tell you honestly, it is not so much the insults that seem to bother people as my replies to those insultees !…Rest assured..after fifty years working in the building trade, I can look after myself quite sufficiently…and I also would never think of myself as a writer first rather than a carpenter that scribbles some tales..My world as a builder is one of weights and measures…it is just that I have met, heard and seen so many and varied people/stories over the years that some of them just needed to be jotted down in writing…Like the above little story ( “The Last Lingering Kiss” )…so I am not insulted by that person’s attempted slight..as a matter of fact, the aligning of myself alongside Henry Lawson via their own subconscious comparison, I consider a compliment..after all, he could have said : “A Barbara Cartland you are not!”….so let us be thankful for small mercies!

Which brings me onto the subject of delivering such tales and yarns to the table…As I said, I am a carpenter first and I write stories in my retirement…so I have come to this ephemeral world of “art” by an accidental route..I have had no schooled instruction on how to frame rythmn or syntax in a paragraph or page..and my grammar is shithouse (thank you spell-check!) but I have learned a thing or two about delivering a story-line from the oral tradition (like say, in the front bar raconteur) to the written word…

There was a yarn spinner I met up in the Flinders Rangers many, many years ago while I worked in a Barytes mine there up above Quorn…he was the cook there in the camp…he was a shithouse cook, but he made up for it with riotous story-telling….Kevin Cotton was his name and by Christ he was good..and he’d accompany his tales with foot-stamping, dust raising and arm-waving at the appropriate moments so that the oral tale became alive with the telling.

But the secret, of course, in delivering “art” to either a viewer, listener or reader…is that the art of the story, music, picture is NOT in the artist’s work so much as already living and breathing within the body and mind of the passive audience…if there is no dormant emotion within the person, then there is no art that can awaken the “music” in that person…”the art is in the heart”..if I can put it like that…and that is why those old folk would buy those penny-dreadfuls or those Mills and Boons…and why that nun stole those pulp-fiction romances in the aforementioned story…they had the feelings locked away inside themselves and the reading triggered the release of those emotions….those harboured desires, the hungering of which The Bard called ; “Sweet Sorrow”…

On this “sweet sorrow” thing…that sad, soft melancholy for a desire missed and then waiting for the return…to be away from one you hunger for…the sweetness of the recent touch, yet the sorrow for the parting from them…some people see such as something to avoid…but personally, I cultivate it..hold it close to my heart…suffer for it, hunger for it…for SUCH is the measure of life itself…to know you are very much alive and the deeper the hunger the more fevered the want…the more you live until it can become almost an uncontrollable frenzy of sensual desire………..something many in our society see as verboten…….I love it..seek it…and I have to confess to you that I feel such with women I have affection for…I cultivate such a hunger for some women in my life…a hunger made all the more fierce for the impossibility of fulfilment….oh that ache of want that can make one sometimes feel like crying out loud!!……….yes..I suffer..as the character in one of my stories hurts…: ” Yes Allesandra..it hurts..it always hurts.”….he says…I..say…it hurts with a delightful fulfilment….a wonderful feeling…such a sweet sorrow..know it, cultivate it and enjoy it, but keep it chained and in control, for life, with all its loves and sorrows gives it to us all freely!

And I learned in my dealings with so many clients in the language we use in negotiation or conversation that most language is spoken using familiar cliches and throw-away lines…and the art in the rhetoric is not necessarily in creating a new form, but in laying at the feet to be easily “picked up”, the familiarity of comfortable phrases that can be common to us all as those everyday feelings..

The skill of the artist is to deliver that “package” so the audience feels like THEY each, are seeing it and feeling the emotions in their own personal way for the first time. “

A Geranium.

He gave his beloved a Geranium,

Attached, a letter explaining him…

“I give this flower to you, my dear,

As a symbol of the passing of passion…

For my love it has been thrown over,

And the Geranium is the moment passing,

…and though my love for you is forlorn,

I wish you from this moment on..

Good health, good wishes and friendship..

For by time you read this I’ll be long gone.”

Signed, in florid script ; “Impatien”….

“Joyce Hartingdale .. Secretary” the writing on the triangular wedge of wood prominent at the front of her desk was written in bright, gold paint. It was there the first day she came to the job at the office situated at the front of the “Shoebridge Furniture Factory”. A job she had come all the way from Manchester, England for…well…it was not just the job, but she had applied for the secretarial job while home in England, fresh graduated from the secretarial college where she had seen the advertisement seeking young ladies to come to the Australian colonies for a bright, fresh life…or at least that is how Joyce saw it… and she took it.

The telegram from her mother back in Manchester sat on the passenger’s seat of the Morris Minor 1000 sedan she was at that very moment driving out to the country town of Kanmantoo so as to attend the funeral of an obscure uncle who had just passed away.

“ Uncle Stan has died”. The telegram started “ Funeral at Kanmantoo Ch of Eng 1pm. Fri. Chance meet family..go!” ..and it was signed : “Mother”.

Joyce, having no friends before she came to this new country, was keen to make contact with those distant relatives her mother had told her lived in the country there..and what better way to introduce oneself than at a funeral..She had her Mothers telegram handy as a note of introduction when she arrived at the church.

It was nice of Mr. Shoebridge to allow her the day off to attend the funeral, and considering that she had only been employed for one month, it gave credibility to how high her secretarial skills were held in the office. In fact, the whole experience of her new life in the antipodes was working out just fine..the weather was much to her liking, the job was a breeze considering her long years spent in training in the cold corridors of the Manchester college and her flat in the western suburbs by the sea was so comfortable with its own little patch of garden that she had every intention of planting out with her favourite flowers just as soon as time allowed.

It was the thought of that flower garden that brought her thoughts right down to earth with a crash!

‘Flowers!” she exclaimed out loud.. “I haven’t brought any flowers!”

The suddenness of the arrangement for attending the funeral, the buying of clothes and instructions of how to get to Kanmantoo from the kindly young man next door threw Joyce’s thoughts for flowers right out the window. Now here she was, out in the countryside, barely a few miles from her destination and only now has she thought of flowers..What could she do?

Fate, at this desperate time had smiled upon Joyce, she decided, for there, not one yard from the verge of the road, was a veritable paddock full to the wire fence of the most brilliant, beautiful purple flowers, resplendent in their fulsome healthy bloom..

“They must be a native species” Joyce concluded as she pulled to the side of the road, for she had never seen such resplendent flowers before. She gathered a bouquet of these blossoms before she threw caution to the winds and gathered a large number more..

“Why not?” she reasoned “be generous”…and she rummaged for a slip of ribbon in the glove-box and tied the volume of flowers into the most bright, fulsome bouquet. “This’ll make a splash!” she pouted in satisfaction…and though she could not add a card of identification of the gift of the flowers, she consoled herself that it would take little effort to enlighten anyone who asked.

Upon arrival at the Church of England chapel, Joyce was obliged to find a park away from the gathering at the front and park the car around the side of the little church. It was apparent from the glimpse she saw of the minister at the door, there was intent to soon start the entrance to the ceremony. Hurrying out of the car with her huge bouquet, Joyce saw the side door to the church ajar and peeking in, saw the coffin on the bier with many bouquets of flowers on top…she quickly slipped into the empty church and placed her bright purple fronds amongst the dahlias and gladiolas and other blooms there, snuggling her generous purple bunch right on top in the middle..Satisfying herself the bunch was secure, she hurriedly slipped out and made her way around to the front of the church to try and meet some of the other mourners there.

As Joyce made her way around to the front of the church, she couldn’t help but notice here and there along the fence-line of the church yard, those very same flowers that she had gathered into her bouquet and placed on top of the coffin and she was wondering if she had been a tad overzealous in her gathering so many into a bunch..

“Coals to Newcastle.” She pondered…

Joyce moved close to a couple and smiled..they smiled back..and she just coyly introduced herself as ‘Joyce’ ..a distant relative…a niece..The couple smiled back. Then Joyce tried to break the ice a bit with some light conversation about the purple flowers along the fence-line.

“Those purple flowers are quite pretty now, aren’t they?”

“The Salvation Jane?”…the lady replied.

“Oh..is that their name? ..I..I didn’t know…from the city, you see…” and she smiled her secretarial smile..” A lovely name…most suitable to the occasion, one might say.”

“Hrumph!” the lady snorted ‘Good job old Stan is no longer around to hear you say that!..’Patterson’s curse’ he called ‘em..a blight on the district!”

“Oh..they troubled him?..Was it hayfever?” Joyce inquired.

“Hayfever!?”..the lady pulled her shoulders back ”Hardly…You mustn’t know what old Stanley Knowles did for a living all these last twenty five years..he were the council weeds and pests control officer..it were his life’s ambition to rid the district of them purple curse!”

“But they are everywhere..” Joyce quietly exclaimed..”He hardly was a success story then.”

“You can blame that on those lot over there” the lady motioned to a group apart.

“And they are?” Joyce now wide-eyed asked.

“The local Bee-Keepers and Honey Distillers Cooperative…Every time Stan pushed for greater effort and funding to really get stuck into the Patterson’s Curse problem, they’d come out swingin’..’cause they depended on the flowers in any off season and drought..But they weren’t deep enemies for all that and now they come to pay their respect..as neighbours do.”

An awful realisation of doom was starting to descend upon Joyce and she was almost at the point of making a dash around to the side door of the church to remove her bouquet from the coffin when the minister made a call for the friends of Stanley Knowles to come gather inside the church for the service.

It only took a little while as the congregation settled into the rows of pews in the chapel that someone noticed Joyce’s bunch of Salvation Jane (Patterson’s Curse) sitting proud as punch on the very top of the collection of funeral wreaths and bouquets on the coffin of the local council’s recently deceased weeds and pest control officer. Things moved pretty fast from that moment on.

A cry of exclamation heralded up to the rafters and it took only a little guess before the obvious conclusion for this gross insult upon a dead man’s reputation was laid upon the shoulders of the ‘Bee-Keepers and Honey Distillers Cooperative’ and the rest, as is so often recorded in moments of public disorder where accusation and abuse colours what should be a sombre celebration…is history.

Joyce did not wait to see the outcome of the fracas, but at the first cry of outrage, she deftly slipped out of the chapel doors and hastily making her way to the trusty Morris Minor 1000, she was already in third gear as she shot out of the gate onto the main road back to the city. The introduction to the country cousins would have to wait till another day.

It stood on my grandmother’s dresser in the lounge. A strange, glass bowl about eight inches across, of several soft colours, neither striped nor layered, but like clouds in the sky, their burred edges blended and vague..touching and yet not..where two colours would have a common border , then interrupted by another intruding between the two.

When I was around twelve years old I asked her what it was. My grandmother came from Ireland, she was a tiny woman with a wealth of stories from the old country. She saw my curiosity in the bowl and after a moment’s hesitation, she got up from her arm-chair and came and reached up and took the bowl down from its place on the shelf.

“It’s called a ‘Love Bowl’ “ she spoke, not necessarily to me, as to a distant past. “Or at least that’s what my mother called it…It was hers …given to her by my father when they were courting.” She touched the bowl tenderly, turning it around slowly in her hands, the familiarity in which she caressed its surface demonstrated that she had done this thing many times in her life.

“Here,” she said , once again noticing my interest “ look at this..if I hold it to the light in a certain manner, like this..look..you can clearly see the blending of the colours..it all becomes clear and concise..you can see it all plain as day…But then, if I turn it this way..now look!..by just the slightest effect of the light, see how it now is clouded and opaque..like you have no clear idea of where one colour stops and the other starts…it becomes confused..you no longer can trust your own eyes…that’s why it is called a “love bowl”…because that is how love works”.

“What do you mean, gran’ ? ” I asked innocently.” How does love work?”

Gran’ placed the bowl on the wide board top of the dresser and leaned on her fore-arms and we both stared at the bowl while she explained.

“ When one is in love..truly in love, one trusts and one gives oneself completely over to that trust so that one’s eyes become clear and focused…like when the light falls in the right place on the bowl and you can see the blending of colours clearly..you have no doubts, you have no fear in your heart.” and grandma suddenly stood straight and threw her arms up in the air “ You feel full of life and full of joy..you feel you could take on the world and win!..and why not?..you are in love..”

Gran’ stopped in her enthusiasm and once more came to rest her arms on the dresser. She turned the bowl to another side and slowly spoke again;

“ But then..if you suddenly start to doubt your love..like the colours in the bowl when turned against the light, you can no longer see your way clearly..you start to doubt even your own eyes and you start to imagine what is not there..suspicion creeps into your soul and you blame others for what you yourself conceive..and then anger, jealousy and spite enters into the relationship and that’s when love leaves the house..” She took a deep breath and straightened..”That is why the bowl is always left so that the light strikes it at the right angle…so love will stay in the heart and in the home.”

I remember then reaching for the bowl and I nearly upset it, so that gran’ quickly grasped it and held it away from my greedy fingers. She was frightened.

“No!”..she cried “In the name of heaven, boy..be careful!..” She must have seen a look of hurt in my eyes, so she softened and explained..; “It’s the glass, lad..and the way it is made..It is worked in a certain way , of such glass, of a certain temperature that if it were to break, it would not just break into several bits, but shatter into a million pieces so that it can never be put back together..it would break like a broken heart..”

“Your dad must have loved your mum.” I remarked casually.

“ He did, lad..he did..but she died in childbirth with her forth child…and not more than a year later he remarried…” Gran was silent for a minute “He married his younger secretary..and I sometimes wonder…” She looked at me and stopped.

She then replaced the bowl up on its shelf, adjusted it to her satisfaction and dusted her hands on her skirt and stared for a moment.

“I suppose I should be thankful it is still in one piece then .”

Gran’ passed away a long time ago now, but I have often wondered what happened to the bowl.